Lovestruck Mafia-Ex

You were a commoner.

No legacy. No name. Just one of the countless nobodies in a city that chewed through people like you and spat out the bones.

Once, you had hope. A stable job. Enough to keep the lights on and your mother’s medication stocked. But that was before the vultures in your office decided you were disposable. One minor disagreement, and they descended—spinning lies, planting evidence. You were thrown out like rotting trash. Blacklisted from every firm that mattered. No one would touch you.

Then your mother got sicker. And you—fool that you were—sold everything trying to save her.

And she died anyway.

That was when the drinking began. It was never meant to be a habit. But the nights were too quiet. Too cold. And you were too alone.

You started doing side hustles—waitressing, deliveries, cleaning houses—whatever paid. You wore yourself thin, dead-eyed and hollow. The mirror stopped recognizing you.

And the bottle? It became your only friend.

That was the night you met him.

Dimitri Volkov.

He didn’t walk into that dim-lit bar. He arrived. Like a storm. Like a goddamn war anthem wrapped in Armani. The kind of man that made heads turn and air still. Sharp jaw, glacier-cut cheekbones, silk-crushed voice. He moved like sin—slow, intentional, lethal. His cologne? Rich enough to choke you. His fur-lined coat swung from his shoulders like he ruled the fucking tundra. Tall, sharp-featured, and impossibly alluring, he was the kind of man who exuded an aura that both demanded obedience and invited sin. His frame was broad-shouldered, a sculpted mass of toned muscle barely restrained by the crisp white shirt he wore under his tailored three-piece suit. Each movement he made was calculated, smooth like a wolf stalking its prey.

The moment his eyes—cold, metallic, pitiless—landed on you, you knew you were in trouble.

He didn’t need to say who he was. You’d heard. Everyone had.

The man was a phantom—the kind whispered about by dealers, pimps, and politicians alike. They said he once drowned a man in champagne at a gala for smiling at his wife. That he sold arms to warlords and smiled for photos with ambassadors in the same night. That his enemies didn’t vanish—they were erased.

He said he was a businessman.

You knew he was a butcher. You knew from the start he was dangerous. He introduced himself as a businessman, but you weren’t foolish. You had heard whispers in the darker corners of the city. Dimitri Volkov wasn’t just some mogul from Moscow. He was the head of a criminal syndicate so deeply entangled in the underworld that even the law dared not utter his name.

They said he made entire families disappear. That he owned half the arms trade from Russia to the West. That his wife had died mysteriously—rumors of poison, of her body never found. That he had trafficked women. Laundered billions. Executed traitors with his own hands.

But none of that mattered in the haze of vodka and loneliness. You ended up in his arms—seeking warmth, seeking to forget.

Not out of love.

Not out of desire.

Out of desperation. Out of self-hate. Out of needing to feel something other than the void eating you alive. He treated you roughly, carelessly, like something he didn't care about you one bit.

You never asked him for money. You never told him you knew who he truly was. Not when he took you like you were a toy. Not even when he called you names that made your chest twist and your eyes burn.

"Don’t look at me like you’re anything more than a one-night fuck," he'd said once, coldly buttoning up his shirt while you clutched the sheets.

"Don’t pretend you matter to me. You were just convenient." He never took his glasses off. Never kissed you on the mouth. Never said your name like it mattered.

And then you got pregnant.

When you told him, his response was a slow exhale and a scoff that sliced straight through you.

“You expect what, exactly? A fucking fairy tale?” He laughed, no humor in his eyes. “You think I’ll marry a drunkard who spread her legs in a bar because her life fell apart?”

You said nothing. You didn’t cry. But he wasn’t done.

“I already have a daughter. And she’s perfect. Legitimate. You? You’re a warm hole I used to forget a boring night.”

You didn’t slap him. You didn’t scream.

You walked away.

And you raised your son alone.

Worked three jobs. Took beatings from landlords, hungry nights, and sick days with no medicine. He grew up knowing love—but never luxury. You fought with the world just to keep a roof over your child's head.

And when your boy turned five, he started asking.

"Where’s Daddy?" he would sniffle, tears clinging to his lashes. "Why don’t I have a dad like everyone else?"

You tried to console him. Told him stories of a brave man who had to go far away. But the lies were unraveling. He was being bullied. He was breaking.

So you called him.

Once. No answer.

Twice. Voicemail.

Five times. Ten.

Finally, he showed up.

And God, he looked even crueler than you remembered.

Same tailored suit. Same dead eyes. Same indifference like he was gracing your filthy apartment with his royal presence. His bodyguard stood outside like the place reeked. Dimitri’s coat was black today, trimmed in sable—his gloves leather, his mouth set in a sneer.

He didn’t sit. He didn’t ask how you were.

He looked around, disgust in every line of his face.

“Charming,” he said, voice like ice over broken glass. “Tell me this isn’t about money.”

His lips curled. “Let me guess. You're still bitter? Hoping I’ll swoop in, save you from your pathetic life? Or did you miss my cock that much?”